


Red Dead Positivity Prompts

by platonicharmonics



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Intersex Bessie Matthews, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Relationships to Be Added - Freeform, Prompt Fill, Rating May Change, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics
Summary: A collection of prompt fills from requesters as my way of (hopefully) spreading some cheer and smiles this season via personalized ficlets! I really love this fandom and this community and wanted a way to lift folks' spirits ♥
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde/Reader, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Reader, John Marston & Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 54
Kudos: 85





	1. (Dutch/Hosea) Stay in Bed

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter prompt by and for [@Disishistory](https://twitter.com/disishistory), who requested "Dutch convincing Hosea to stay in bed (against him) in the morning." I hope this can help bring you a little happiness, friend! I love you! ♥
> 
> I'm taking prompt requests on my Twitter, so please see [this thread](https://twitter.com/platonicharmon1/status/1334599384378519553) to request a prompt!

The first light of dawn filtered through the rustic ranch-house window, illuminating the soft blue curtains that adorned it and mingling its warm fiery golds with the cool color for only a moment before continuing its creep across the dark wooden floor, crawling up the bed posts and easing up onto mattress, wrapping the two figures tangled together under the blankets in a warm embrace, painting light fiery highlights on the long arcs of raven curls and swooping silver locks.

As had always been the case for over five decades, Hosea blinked awake as soon as the light touched his eyelids.

The first thing he became aware of was  _ warmth. _ All around and over him - radiating out from his husband where their legs were tangled together, where stomach and chest were pressed to his, where his arms were wrapped around his torso, wedged under his ribs and draped over his back where they lay facing each other, and where his breath was puffing across his scalp where his nose was buried in his hair.

The second thing he became aware of was the  _ softness _ \- the siren's song of Dutch's suntanned skin encasing him in softness, tucked securely along the supple lines of hardened muscles, his thighs and calves sliding along soft body hair as surely as his hands were where they were groggily trailing up the hair of the man's back to swirl into his curls.

The third thing he became aware of was how many chores he had to do.

With a deep, mournful breath where he inhaled all the heady scents of his life partner from the crook of Dutch's neck - rosin and lemon and old sweet tobacco mingled with the pleasant salt of sweat - and released them with a pained sigh, he began the careful task of extracting himself from Dutch's hold with as much due care and precision as a surgeon, nudging away Dutch's legs and curling his hands around Dutch's wrist to ease away his hold and return the man's hand to his side.

He freed himself from Dutch's limbs and allowed his expression to fall as he stared at Dutch's sleeping expression, looking serene and at peace where he lay slack-jawed and gently snoring, sunlight kissing the side of his face. Hosea was tempted to raise the sun with his own play of pressing his lips to that same skin, but knew that was far too likely result in him falling back into the man's embrace - whether by his own volition or by Dutch reflexively reaching out for him and hauling him close in a vice grip.

So he refused. Abstained even from looking upon Dutch for a second more, feeling exceptionally poetic and silly and like he'd gone soft and sentimental in his old age. He gently grunted as he rolled towards the edge of the bed, resolving to purge such softness with the cooking of breakfast and feeding of chickens and watering of cattle-

He'd just swung his legs out of the bed and had placed his feet on the cold wood of the floor when a large hand curled around his slim wrist, accompanied by an achingly sad, deep rumble from behind him.

Hosea sighed and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, attempting to flick off the hand. Dutch's grip held fast.

"Dutch."

_ "'Sea…" _

"Dear, I've gotta get up."

"No y'  _ don't…" _

Hosea flicked his wrist again with a touch more frustration. "Food won't cook itself and the livestock need feedin'."

"Let th' boys handle it…"

Hosea huffed and glared at their bedroom door - so close yet so far. "Unlike  _ some people, _ I do not appreciate lounging around all day letting my mind and body idle when I could be workin'."

"S'posed t' be  _ retirement, _ Ol' Girl…"

"I told you, I don't want to be idle-"

Dutch's voice carried a particularly sharp whine to it when he said "Y' wouldn' be  _ idle…" _

"Then what do you call sleeping in?"

Dutch made another low, rumbly, whiny sound. "Bein' old."

Hosea flicked his wrist again.

"'Sea."

He flicked it harder.

"Hosea."

He grabbed Dutch's fingers and began prying them upwards when suddenly Dutch's other hand came up to hook around his ribs like a cane from a Vaudeville skit, yoinking him across the bed to tumble back on top of Dutch over the covers. Hosea almost slapped him.

"Hosea," Dutch whined again.

_ “Dutch,”  _ Hosea mockingly whined back.

Dutch narrowed his eyes and huffed, wrapping his arms around Hosea to hold him close, his grip only growing tighter as Hosea tried to weasel out of it. “Why is it that when we were on the run all you could talk about was wanting to rest and retire, then we finally get to rest in retirement and all you wanna do is work?”

Hosea finally stopped struggling against Dutch’s hold and slumped onto his chest, his eyes downcast as his expression grew pinched. A long few seconds passed before Dutch lifted one of his hands to run his fingers through his hair, grown out slightly and long enough now to be able to be tucked behind his ears. The soothing gesture made Hosea’s expression relax and smooth out, coaxing his breath to gently ease out through his nose.

“...What’s wrong with taking a break?” Dutch whispered.

Hosea blinked and carefully looked up at Dutch, his expression crumpling. “Guess… Guess I've been fighting so hard for so long for this happy ending that part of me feels like I still gotta fight for it. And maybe another part of me...” he slowly eased his left hand over to Dutch’s left, squeezing his fingers in his, the sunlight glinting off both of their wedding rings “...wants to finally feel like I got a long while yet before I leave you.”

Dutch lowly hummed, a soft note that vibrated Hosea’s chest and through his ribs to ease into his heart. The deep rich oak of his eyes captured all the gold of the sunlight, snagging his heart with as much soft hope as they had the day they first met. Bearing in them all the glowing reverence that he once feared would never appear in them again. “You fought enough,” Dutch said quietly. “You worked enough. You  _ won, _ darlin’. You saved us with that bank job of yours and pulled me out of that grave I was diggin’ for all of us. The animals will be fine. The kids will be fine. You can go out and fuss over ‘em later like the mother hen you are, but…” Dutch’s right hand slid from his hair down the length of his back, dragging his fingernails back up the length of his spine to circle around his nape, sending goosebumps and shivers down the length of his frame. “...don’t work yourself into an early grave. Stay with me.” They stared at each other for another long moment as Dutch’s hand eased back up and through Hosea’s hair. “Stay,” he breathed.

Hosea stared unblinking for several heartbeats, a soft sparkle in his eyes as he reached his own hand up to ease his fingers through Dutch’s curls, pushing them back away from his face, rubbing his thumb reverently across their roots.

“...You’re getting gray in your hair,” Hosea breathed, still caressing the streaks.

The corners of Dutch’s eyes crinkled, melting seamlessly into the wrinkles and old laugh lines that adorned his face. “Stay,” he repeated. 

Hosea nuzzled his nose through Dutch’s beard then clambered off of him to crawl under the covers once more, melding himself against Dutch’s side to drape himself across Dutch’s torso, tucking his head under Dutch’s chin to be met with a soft kiss to the top of his scalp as Dutch’s arms ensconced him once more, their legs tangling back together in their old embrace. Dutch tucked the covers around them both and then held the back of Hosea’s head, nuzzling down into his hair.

“I love you, schatje,” Dutch murmured.

But Hosea was already fast asleep.


	2. (Hosea/Bessie) The Best of Women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is by and for [@spel_acchiotto](https://twitter.com/spel_acchiotto), who requested "would you consider writing something sweet and tender with your gorgeous intersex bessie and good old hosea?" Writing this was an absolute delight (and for an absolute delight)! I hope this brings you a smile, Spel! I love you!
> 
> I'm taking prompt requests on my Twitter, so please see [this thread]() to request a prompt!

The warm summer breeze whispered along the grass, soaring up to playfully tinkle through the leaves of the trees and fill the air with the singing notes of their laughter like nature’s windchimes, casting twinkling dancing shadows that swirled around the sunlight as both fell upon the soft beige canvas of the tent below, pushing through the tent flaps to cool the sweat of the couple that lay curled into each other on their bed rolls within, ruffling their hair and fluttering a lock of strawberry blonde hair down to tickle both of their noses.

Bessie wiggled her nose, wiggled it again, snorted, then sneezed herself awake.

“Cute.”

Bessie rapidly blinked her eyes open and blushed, smiling brightly at the sight of Hosea propped up on an elbow and staring down at her with sparkling hazel eyes that always contained as wide a spectrum of colors as the man contained a capacity for love and kindness - shining amber and stormy grays with whispers of green and gold flecks. He had the most gorgeous eyes of any man she’d ever met, and it was a struggle every morning to come to terms with how she got to wake up to them every morning. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he lightly sang back in that sweet smooth tenor of his. The morning sunlight was making his light blonde hair absolutely glow. “Whatcha staring at?”

Bessie blushed deeper and giggled, rolling onto her back. Her voice sounded as much as it felt like sandpaper when she said in her low, rough alto, “You. Mostly your eyes.”

“Oh, what a coincidence,” Hosea said warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his soft smile. “I was doing the same.” And with that, he slowly leaned down and hovered his mouth above hers - a silent, gentle question, always ready to be deflected to her cheek if she ever signaled no. She never did. As always, she parted her lips and closed her eyes, shivering when she felt him reverently mold his lips to hers, easing her mouth open so that his tongue could explore it, sliding and embracing her tongue as her arms moved up to embrace his shoulders. He eased away, then, lingering for a few seconds before kissing her on the mouth once, twice, thrice. She giggled as he started kissing across her cheeks to the corners of her eyes. “My eyes ain’t nothing to stare at,” she rasped.

“You say that like they ain’t the most gorgeous emeralds I’ve ever seen,” Hosea murmured, nuzzling his nose across her cheek and across her brow, lifting his hand to caress all her soft curves and chub through the fabric of her nightgown, curving his hand around the rolls in her side like they were something precious. “They outshine all the hordes of royal jewels every monarch in the world has in their possession, and somehow you grace me with them every day.”

Bessie shuddered. “I see how you’re an excellent conman,” she murmured. The flash of hurt in Hosea’s eyes made her frantically backpedal, stretching up to kiss his lips. “I wish I could see all the things you see in me,” she said quickly. Hosea’s expression softened again, and he reached his hand up to cup her jaw – his skin catching on the rough stubble that grew there. Bessie quickly ducked her head to stare down at the pillow, her curly hair falling in front her face.

There was a long, heavy pause, before Hosea gently brushed it out of the way and tucked it behind her ear, asking, “Would you like to shave with me this morning, libste?”

Bessie glanced up at him and smiled, a small, shy thing. “Yes.”

With that, Hosea fully sat up and then helped pull her upright as well, clambering up onto his feet and pulling the suspenders of his pants back onto his shoulders over his gray union suit. Bessie pushed herself up to her feet as well, fixing her night gown and tugging out its rumples and folds before following Hosea out to the mouth of their tent where he sat himself onto the stool in front of their small rickety table with their shaving mirror, pulling her down into his lap as soon as she got close with a squeak and a giggle, which only grew louder when he nuzzled his nose under her jaw.

“Mornin’,” Arthur called over to them with a warm smile where he was chopping wood.

“I see the love birds are at it early,” Dutch called over with an impish glint in his eye where he was prying open a can of beans for little John.

“Ignore him,” Hosea murmured, pecking her on the cheek as he arranged their shaving supplies in front of them.

“Morning Dutch!” Bessie brightly called over with a little wave, making Hosea snort and chuckle underneath her. “Morning Arthur! Morning John! Morning Susan!” Susan offered her a warm smile where she was doing the morning laundry.

Annabelle emerged from Dutch’s tent in nothing but a half-buttoned button-up and sagging jeans, squinting blearily at the pair and holding her arms out in massive offense. Bessie smiled and called over “And a _very_ special morning to _you,_ Anna!” Annabelle waved them off and stalked over to their main fire and the percolator as Hosea lifted up his shaving cream brush and started painting both of their faces in the fresh-smelling cream.

“Here you are, taybele,” Hosea murmured once they were both sporting lumpy white beards, handing her her straight-razor. Bessie couldn’t resist kissing him on the lips, smearing the cream onto their mouths and making them both giggle. They had to wait until both of them stopped vibrating with mirth before they started shaving.

“I hate that I grow whiskers,” Bessie murmured, gliding the razor down the side of her cheek, “but I love sharing this with you.”

Hosea side-eyed her, a warm and reverent light shining in his eyes as he shaved his own face. “I love your whiskers,” he murmured, wiping his razor on the towel before setting it aside, reaching his hand up to settle in the center of her chest. “I love all your body hair,” he added, gently massaging her chest where a patch of hair grew. “And I love you. All of you. In all your womanhood.”

Bessie’s vision blurred as she wiped her own razor on the towel and set it down. “Sometimes I don’t feel like a woman,” Bessie whispered. 

Hosea’s lips gently pressed to the side of her jaw, kissing the newly smooth skin. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he breathed.

Bessie ducked her head. “You’re just being nice.”

Hosea’s hand reached up and caught her chin, guiding it over to look at him directly, the both of them still half-shaven. “Do you think I lie to you, libste?” he asked softly. “Is that what you think of me?”

“N-No,” Bessie said uneasily, pressing her forehead to his, staring at the handsome angles of his face – his sharp cheekbones, his chiseled jaw. Hosea was like a man who stepped directly out of a romance novel, drawn perfectly by the hands of an artist to be cosmically handsome in every way. There wasn’t a flaw in him. He could have any woman in the world, she knew. He _did_ have a man, when they met. Yet, somehow, he looked at her and decided that there was room in his heart for two, and somehow never made her feel like table scraps or an experimental fling, something to toy with and use up like an exhibition at the circus before he went sauntering back into Dutch’s arms.

He made her feel like his first priority. He made her feel respected – sacred, even. He made her feel a queen, a goddess. He made her feel like part of his own soul, as surely as he felt like part of hers.

He made her feel like a _woman._

“Maybe…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them. “No. I trust you,” she whispered.

Hosea pressed a long, reverent kiss to her lips that she sighed into. When it finally broke, he breathed, “Beautiful.”

Her eyes crinkled. “Handsome.”

A small smile grew on Hosea’s face. “Gorgeous,” he added, picking up her straight razor and lifting it towards her unshaven cheek, a silent question. She nodded, picking up his razor and asking the same of him. He nodded.

“Cute,” she said quietly, relishing the goosebumps as he glided the razor across her skin. She reverently shaved away his stubble in return, blinking away tears at his vulnerable display of trust.

“Alluring.”

“Dashing.”

“Intoxicating.”

“Ravishing.”

“The best of women.”

“And the best of men.”

They blinked at each other, smiling lopsidedly at their newly smooth faces before setting the razors down and melting into a warm embrace.

“I love you, Hosie.”

“I love you too, Bess.”


	3. (Hosea/m!Reader) The Gilded Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is by and for James [@thsilverscream](https://twitter.com/thsilverscream), who requested "may i request a crumb of male reader x hosea fluff..?" and this uhhhh... turned into a BIT MORE than just a crumb. I've never written Reader/ _Anything_ before and this really really pushed me out of my comfort zone, but in a good way. I went on with this for? A while? Because I kind of needed the narrative to hold my hand? But then I just endeavored to write a nice Hosea fluff fantasy for my fellow men and transmascs everywhere sjdhfksd I hope this ficlet is able to make you smile James!!
> 
> I'm taking prompt requests on my Twitter, so please see [this thread](https://twitter.com/platonicharmon1/status/1334599384378519553) to request a prompt!

The sound of laughter reverberated through and shook the walls of the carriage so forcefully that you were sure every soul on the surrounding street could hear it and see the vibrations it was causing in the chassis, but you didn’t care - the tears of mirth in your eyes and the warmth in your chest as it quaked with laughter was all you cared for.

“We are ridiculous!” Dutch crowed as Hosea laughed himself into a coughing fit at your side, managing a fond “Utterly!” as you clapped him on the back.

“I ain’t never been to a ball in my life!” Arthur gleefully declared as Dutch reached down for a bottle of champagne, popping its cork off and adding “Nor have I, if I am being honest!”

Hosea wiggled in excitement against your side, crowing “I used to quite often! There could be  _ fine pickin’s,” _ as the two of you exchanged mischievous smirks, settling your hands on each other’s knees.

Dutch immediately let out a wheeze and rushed to say “Oh no, no, no, no,  _ no pickpocketing.”  _ You and Hosea both fixed him with a faux-mournful look. “We are here to make  _ real contacts!” _

“You’d deny Hosea his fun?” you whined, and Hosea sagely nodded, wrapping a companionable arm around your shoulders.

“What kind of contacts?” Arthur asked, ever the pragmatist, studiously ignoring the two of you with a faint hint of red in his ears. You always went back and forth on whether you technically qualifying as Arthur’s third father was hilarious or crushingly awkward day by day, but luckily today felt like the former, so you just dissolved into snickers.

“Well I don’t know!” Dutch instantly replied without a drop of self-awareness. “We find out what we can! All I know for sure is  _ we  _ are going to a party at the  _ mayor’s  _ house… and the guest of honor, is the  _ worst crook in town!” _ All four of you immediately burst into laughter again as Dutch kept fiddling with the bottle. “I’m sure that we will find something!”

“Okay!” Arthur said with a chuckle and a shrug, holding up his glass. You and Hosea both held up your glasses as well for Dutch to fill with champagne, and when his was full as well, you all hoisted your glasses in a toast before downing the liquid just as the carriage pulled up in front of the mansion. Dutch immediately moved to jump out like his ass was on fire, and the three of you followed suit.

“Gentlemen! Luca...” the mayor’s greeter strictly called at the gate as the four of you approached, Dutch practically slapping the invitation down onto the man’s clipboard, “I’m afraid the mayor does not allow  _ guns  _ at official functions… after last year’s incident.” Dutch turned back to give a look at the three of you, and you and Hosea both side-eyed each other as you casually unholstered your guns and handed them to the greeter, Dutch and Arthur doing the same moments later. “Luca here will take you to Mr. Bronte. I believe he is expecting you.”

A Frenchman beamed at you all and warmly said “Follow me, gentlemen,” before walking away - Dutch took the opportunity to leer at the greeter with a sharp smirk and heavy pat on the shoulder before walking, Hosea following suit a heartbeat later with a cold look and subtle scowl, clapping him on the shoulder and lingering a moment before briskly stepping away. You decided to try your hand at your own smirk with a wink and a click of your tongue before falling into step behind your partner, while Arthur softly smiled and awkwardly nodded before shuffling off.

Luca wasted no time gushing at you all in a rambling babble, praising Angelo Bronte’s name as you all stepped into the towering, gilded mansion, affixed in all the finest luxuries that the bosom of civilization had to offer - almost the entire mansion was affixed in whites and golds, sporting crystal chandeliers and real houseplants that had your skin crawling as much as the tuxedo gracing your frame. 

The sole comfort of it all was that you were able to have a night out with your partner in a setting where he was truly in his element - Hosea’s eyes were sweeping around the mansion and all of its patrons with a clinical, predatory gaze that made him radiate with a youthful energy that made light glitter in his eyes like the stars, echoing back to his carefree youth when his days seemed so heavy and full of melancholy lately. His eyes snagged on you behind him as he was casing the mansion, and the light flared like the sun, as bright as the smiles that appeared on your faces when your eyes met each other’s gaze.

It was your greatest hope to make his days a little less dark. Goodness knew that he made your days brighter.

Dutch glanced over his shoulder as you all passed through a narrow hallway and said “Hosea… take your, uh,  _ gentleman companion _ here and join the party. We’ll meet you out back after we pay our respects to Signor Bronte.”

You and Hosea immediately split off from the slow single-file line behind Luca, drifting towards the doors leading to the garden party. Hosea quietly said “We’ll meet on the balcony when you’re done,” and then - just like that - the two of you were alone.

“Well, then,” Hosea sighed, visibly forcing himself to liven up like a bird of paradise as he turned to look at you and gestured at the party. “Shall we?”

The ache to take each other’s arms or walk hand in hand was palpable, and you were even half-sure Hosea cancelled the action to hold out his arm. It was evident enough in the melancholy tinge to his smile - the awareness of all the bodies moving around you both and swarmed outside the windows in the party proper, surrounded on all sides by the ever-watchful eye of a violently hateful  _ Society  _ for men like you, was like a cage without bars, and you both songbirds unable to sing. 

So instead, you clasped your hands behind your back and nodded towards the party. “Let’s.”

With a spring in his step, Hosea took the lead as you both exited the building into the silk-and-velvet clad throng and said, “You know, it’s a shame that we’re not in a  _ proper  _ venue. I wish you were with us back when we were near San Francisco - that city, despite its... nauseating atmosphere, had a  _ community  _ that was  _ so vibrant _ for…  _ discouraged  _ men like us. I could properly take you out dancing, my dear friend.”

You grinned at the thought of being able to be in a space where the two of you could be yourselves rather than in a place stuffed full of diamond-and-feather-covered bourgois with Confederate flags hidden away in their homes. “I have no doubt that you could show me a real party. Although, in my opinion, you can turn even the most wretched pit into a party.”

Hosea wheezed a laugh as you both stepped through the crowd and began ascending the mansion steps to the covered balcony overlooking the garden. “I’m sure I am the only thing making  _ home  _ bearable.”

“You are,” you stated, as a matter of fact. As sure as if declaring the sky was blue, or the night was dark.

Hosea paused at that, halfway up the steps. You stepped up to his side as he turned to look at you and bumped your shoulders together - just a light, grounding touch. Hosea let out a short huff and smiled at you, then the marble steps, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“You give a lot of credit to an old man, old boy,” Hosea said gently, resuming his trek up the steps. You remained at his side.

“I give proper credit to a  _ good  _ man,” you shot back.

“Enough,” Hosea gruffed with a chuckle, stepping up to the balcony rail and leaning on it with his elbows, taking a deep breath that rasped just a little. You mirrored his posture at his side, crossing your ankles, fighting the urge to press your shoulders together. 

It’s wasn’t too long before Dutch and Arthur joined you both, their postures rigid and thrumming with discomfort. 

"Gentlemen… let's go ingratiate ourselves," Dutch huffed, stepping up to the balcony and turning around to lean against it. After a long pause where you all glanced around, Dutch looked to Arthur and said, "Okay… go find the mayor if you can, and stay out of trouble, and steal-  _ nothing… _ unless it's information."

"Of course," Arthur said with a nod.

"Hosea, you go find us someplace to rob, and  _ you-" _ Dutch made eye contact with you, raising a pointed finger "-go make us some friends. I'm gonna try and find out if Cornwall knows we're here. Gentlemen… be well."

\--

You didn’t mean to punch Colonel Alberto Fussar, authoritarian dictator of Guarma, in the dick.

Well, you  _ did  _ \- but you certainly didn’t mean to draw so much heat onto you in the heart of Bronte’s party, the man himself making eye contact with you from his ‘Lordship’s’ balcony as soon as Fussar’s pained cry ripped through the air of the gala, making the conversations quiet and the orchestra stop playing. You saw Bronte arch a brow and wolfishly smile right before you got tackled to cries of  _ “Sécurité! Sécurité!” _

“Let me go! Let me go! My  _ father  _ will hear about this, I tell you, he’ll ruin you all-!” you tried yelping as the police dragged you towards the back of the party, your heart thundering in your chest. 

Hosea, graciously, came jogging through the crowd with an arm outstretched, calling “Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi! Je suis désolé, gentlemen, please! Just a moment!”

The policemen stopped just when you were at the back gate of the mayor’s property, turning to scowl at Hosea as he bent over onto his knees, winded - or at least, acting winded.

“Is this your Daddy?” one drawled, sounding bored. Both you and Hosea blanched at the same time.

“This man here,” Hosea huffed, still keeping up his vague French accent as he straightened up and steadied his back, “is my business associate. Alfred Lafonde is my name, I hail from Quebec,  _ he’s  _ my business partner and head of our American base - my company and I take full responsibility for him and will pay for whatever damages or slights upon the fine city of Saint Denis he may have caused. Please, who should I arrange the payment to?”

The two officers glanced at each other, then pushed you into Hosea’s waiting arms. "The penalty of the fine will be determined by however many charges Colonel Fussar desires to press, if this does not become an  _ international incident. _ We will invoice your company for the amount, and if you fail to pay, we  _ will _ arrest and imprison your friend here. He is not allowed to leave Saint Denis in the meantime."

“Of course, of course,” Hosea soothed, rubbing your back and squeezing your elbow. The other officer sternly pointed out the gate, and you and Hosea both nodded meekly before slinking through the gate and off the property, onto the dark city streets. 

Hosea quickly marched you a good distance around the outer wall of the property until you were both safely ensconced in the shadows of a line of trees and bushes that separated the property from the city proper. Hosea finally let you go and spun you around to face him, slowly raising his chin to stare you down before crossing his arms.

“Before I make any judgement,” he said slowly, “I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

You swallowed. You scuffed your dress shoe on the ground, shoved your hands in your pockets, swayed on your feet and stared at the ground, then looked up and said, “He said that slavery is the ‘natural order’ of ‘certain sections’ of humanity. He quoted Charles Darwin, Hosea, he  _ bastardized Darwin _ to spew that ‘survival of the fittest’ fascist  _ bullshit  _ to  _ justify slavery.” _

Hosea looked at you for a long moment, and then - his expression softened, a slow, coy smile growing on his face. “This is why I love you, you know.”

You raised your brow at him and crossed your arms, though it felt more like you were hugging yourself as you nibbled your bottom lip. “I-” you started before your voice died out, and you started anxiously shifting on your feet again. “We’re supposed to not cause any waves here, and I went and punched a dictator in the dick in the mayor’s garden and made eye contact with the man who owns the whole damn city,  _ its guests included, _ and Dutch said that I was supposed to be making _ friends-” _

Your voice cut out when Hosea's hand reached out to touch your neck, fanning out deceptively delicate fingers to curl around its side and cradle your pulse in his palm, stretching up his pointer finger and thumb to gently massage the shell of your ear. You shivered and closed your eyes as goosebumps ghosted down the nape of your neck, leaning into his warmth of his touch.

"It's okay," Hosea's voice soothed, gentle. 

You opened your eyes and looked at him. The contrasting light of warm oranges from the streetlamps and the pale blues from the moon above cast his sharp, handsome face in breathtaking contrast of light and shadow. "I coulda put the gang in danger-"

"We'll manage."

"Dutch is gonna be  _ so mad-" _

"Who gives a damn about Dutch?"

You tilted your head at him. "I got you kicked out of the party because you had to save me. You were working. Now we're both out of operation and it's just Dutch and Arthur in there."

Hosea took a half step closer, and you could feel his breath ghosting over you in the damp Saint Denis air. You shivered again. "There will be other opportunities for us to sniff out leads," he said softly. "And Dutch and Arthur will be fine. They've been conning together in lion's dens for two decades. My first priority? Is you."

You slowly reached up and curled your hand around Hosea's wrist, caressing your thumb over the line of his pulse. "Don't really know why," you said quietly. "You're the co-founder of the whole gang. You're… smart, and capable, and powerful, and I'm pretty sure most of the gang respects  _ your _ word over Dutch's." Hosea looked skeptical, but you just squeezed his wrist tighter. "I'm just some fellow you found in the Grizzlies. Why'd you be with a man like me? You're… way above my league, I'm not worthy of the attention you give me-"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Hosea said firmly, his expression softening even more as he moved his hands to fix your necktie, gliding his fingers under your collar and curling his knuckles into the hollow of your throat. "If you can't see your own strength or your own goodness, then my heart weeps for you. You're an upstanding man, zis lebn. If the lowest of our lot had half as much chutzpah and goodness as you, then I reckon we'd be far better off. The real question that should be asked, here… is why on Earth a young, handsome, lion-hearted man like you is wasting your time on an old sickly brokenhearted widow?"

You batted his hands back down and seized him by the collar, pressing your foreheads together. “If you can’t see  _ your  _ own strength or your own goodness, Hosea,” you said lowly, “then I… this whole gang… hell, the whole  _ world  _ \- is lost.” You leaned your head back to gently take his chin. “I don’t care about the age gap. Your years don’t somehow make you ‘used goods’ - you’re more handsome than any of the men in camp to me, you silly, silver  _ fox  _ of a man, and don’t you forget it. And when it comes to your lungs, or your joints, or your nerves? So what? How does any of that make you lesser? Taking care of you on your bad days is a blessing, not a burden, and you take care of me right back. And anyone-” you made steady eye contact with him  _ “-anyone, _ who has ever dared throw you away or leave you for another or say that you somehow aren’t desirable anymore?” You took a deep breath. “They don’t deserve you.”

Hosea’s expression was a soft, open thing, and his eyes were crinkled so much you almost couldn’t see the hazel of his irises.

“And when it comes to Bessie?” you said gently, your grip gentling on him before letting go with a slow drag of your fingers and stepping back. “I always knew this would be a relationship of three. I also know I can’t heal her loss and I don’t expect to. I love her because you love her, and I know she’d agree with me that you deserve to be happy. And I just know that… well… you make me feel safe and loved. And I want to spend the rest of our lives together. Maybe that means burying you next week, maybe that means burying you twenty years from now, maybe that means you burying me tomorrow-”

Hosea took a step forward at that to close the gap, pressing you into the shadows behind a tree, ensconcing you both in safety before lifting his hands to splay over and firmly grip your waist with reverent caresses of his fingertips, leaning in close to nuzzle his nose along your jaw and ghost his lips over yours. You shivered and looked up to meet his gaze, an intense gorgeous amber even in the darkness, and reached up to slowly frame his face in your hands before nodding, just slightly.

The moment his lips met yours, the shriek of a firework soared up into the sky and quieted for a second before bursting with a loud boom, bathing you both in soft green light as you sweetly kissed each other and settled more and more into each other’s embrace. Three more fireworks flew up, then six, until they were going nigh constantly, and the distant oohs and ahs of the crowd at the gala were drowned out by the noise of the colorful fire in the sky embracing you both in dancing colors as you both breathed each other in.

Hosea broke the kiss a few seconds later and took your hand, pulling you out into the street to get a clear look at the glittering light shimmering and flickering up above - a sight that had Saint Denis’s ever-busy streets at a standstill as the whole city paused itself to watch. You squeezed his hand and tugged it closer to your hip, and his thumb soft caressed your knuckles. You found yourself smiling, your cheeks starting to hurt from the exertion, and when you finally looked over at your lover, he was only looking at you.

“Come on,” Hosea said brightly as the fireworks died down and the crowd at the gala and random passersby started clapping. He took your hand and tugged you away from the mayor’s property, jogging down the streets towards the heart of the city.

You let loose a laugh. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise!”

“This wasn’t part of the plan!”

“Neither was you punching a dictator! We’re improvising!”

“Fair enough!”

The surprise, it turned out, was Hosea leading you through the streets to slip into the stairwell of an apartment building, climbing up three flights of stairs, and emerging up onto the roof, overlooking the warm, golden city skyline at night as the wind blew at both of your faces, cooler and freer than the muggy air trapped down near the streets.

“...It’s beautiful,” you said quietly after you managed to catch your breath, looking at all the golden glowing lights like fireflies in constellations all around you.

Hosea weaved your fingers together and rested his shoulder against yours as he finished catching his own breath. “...Thought I’d take you out dancing.”

You looked at him and grinned. “Dancing?”

Hosea stepped in front of you and delicately raised your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Dancing.”

You smirked and changed your stance into something more loose. “Well, then. Show me what you got, Mr. Matthews.”

Hosea reverently guided your hand to his hip and raised your clasped hands above shoulder level, lifting his free hand to rest on your shoulder, a warm and heavy weight. The twinkle in his eyes outshone the stars. “I was more hoping you could show me yours, my good sir.”

Your smirk widened into a bright smile. “You asked for it.”

And there, under the moonlight, surrounded by the music of the city at night, you two danced - carefree and at peace, carving out a moment of pure giggly happiness amidst a cruel world that seemed determined to rest heavy on your shoulders and snuff out the light remaining in Hosea instead of kindling it into something brighter.

But not on your watch.


	4. (Dutch&Arthur) Forgotten Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is by and for [@ArthurChaps](https://twitter.com/arthurchaps/), who requested "would you consider writing something with Dutch trying to reconnect a bit with young Arthur after John gets into the picture? 👉👈 like him having a moment of clarity where he realizes he's not been the best dad to Arthur lately?" I had an absolute. **blast.** filling this ficlet prompt and I ADORE writing platonic familial love SO MUCH, so this was a real treat and a lovely way to finish my Christmas Eve ^^ I hope this makes you smile as much as it did me!!!!
> 
> I'm taking prompt requests on my Twitter, so please see [this thread](https://twitter.com/platonicharmon1/status/1334599384378519553) to request a prompt!

_ “That’s it, _ John,  _ good! _ Don’t let her get lazy! Bring her home! Bring her home! C’MON!”

Dutch hopped and skipped backwards as John approached at a full-tilt gallop on the back of Dutch’s bay mare, Empress, his cheeks aching from how wide he was smiling before glancing down at his pocketwatch when the boy raced the horse between the fence posts he’d set as the finish line - he immediately snapped it shut and shoved it into his pocket before running after him, watching as the boy leaned back in the saddle and tightened the rein, and Empress, ever the the fine quarter-horse, jolted to a stop in only a few feet, sending the boy flying over her head to land harshly on his shoulder with a cry.

_ “John!” _ Dutch barked, skidding on his knees the last few feet to grab the boy and steady him where he lay on the ground, “Whoa, there, son, you okay?!”

The twelve-year-old made a face, but after a brief grunt, rasped “Yeah.” His expression pinched tighter as he rubbed at his shoulder.

Dutch raised an eyebrow at him. “You sure?”

“Yup,” John huffed, squinting at him.

“So it don’t hurt when I do this?” he prompted, digging his thumb into the boy’s shoulder, and John shrieked before choking it back and gritting his teeth, showing more thunder in his young pre-pubescent face than Dutch had seen in many grown men.

Lord, he loved the boy.

“All right, sit up here, cowboy, let me check it out,” Dutch tutted, helping John sit up before unbuttoning his shirt enough to slip it down off his shoulder. John rolled his eyes to the skies as Dutch gently eased his fingers around the boy’s shoulder, feeling the injury out, frowning at how the skin felt hotter than its surroundings and the joint felt dramatically out of place. “Looks like you dislocated your shoulder, son.”

“I’m fine.”

Dutch smiled. “I admire your grit, son, but we still gotta put that shoulder back.”

John heaved a sigh and looked into the distance like Dutch was a fussing mother about to wipe his cheek clean with a licked thumb. That wasn’t a half bad idea, actually, but- later. In two short, quick movements, Dutch harshly braced the boy’s back and grabbed the dislocated shoulder, then snapped it back into place. John screamed through his clenched jaw and his eyes went unfocused, but otherwise, the boy pretended everything was fine.

Dutch ruffled the boy’s head of long greasy locks and rubbed his back. “There. Still fine?”

“Mhm,” John grunted, screwing his eyes shut and breathing through his nose for a long few seconds. “What was my time?”

“You ready for this?” Dutch asked, grinning until John opened his eyes and blinked at him, his tight expression swiftly falling into one of open, eager anticipation as he looked up at Dutch’s face. “One minute, seventeen seconds.”

A smile beamed on John’s face and the boy screamed in victory, and he went to throw both his arms up before whimpering and letting his arms ease back down, cradling his shoulder. Dutch laughed heartily from his belly and hugged the boy’s head to his chest before pushing himself up to his feet and grabbing Empress’s rein, leading her closer to the boy where she’d been staring at him with huge apologetic doe-eyes. He scratched behind her ears and said, “I won’t make you ride back to camp, but I am gonna make you get back on this here horse, son. I ain’t letting this be like swimming.”

John let out a long, gritted moan as he huffed and made a grand show of stomping himself back up onto his feet and dragging his boots up to Empress’s saddle. He steeled himself, then, using his one good arm to grab the saddle horn before standing on tip-toe to slip the tip of his boot in the stirrup, then swiftly pulled himself up into the saddle, heaving a pained sigh of relief.

_ “That’s my boy!” _ Dutch crowed, slinging Empress’s reins back over her head and deftly lengthening the stirrups back to the length of his adult legs before moving to swing up into the saddle behind John - but not before he caught the way John’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly upwards. Settling himself at the boy’s back, Dutch secured John to his chest with a steady arm, slipping his feet into the stirrups and taking the reins up in one hand before clicking Empress into a steady canter back to camp.

“And so our little king returns!” Hosea called as he saw them approach, smiling and folding his newspaper where he sat at the camp’s single table as Dutch swung off of Empress and hitched her to a tree before lifting John up out of the saddle and swinging him down onto the ground - John landed a harsh kick to his shin for the action, but Dutch simply allowed it with a soft  _ oof. _ He licked the pad of his thumb and reached out for a smear of dirt on the boy’s cheek, effectively chasing him further into camp to hide behind Hosea, making the man in question glance between them fondly. As Dutch chased John in circles around Hosea’s chair, he asked, “How’d it go?”

Dutch finally stopped chasing John with his saliva-covered thumb and stood up straight, planting his hands on his hips to beam down at Hosea only to twist his face to express his pain when John landed an even harsher kick to the same shin. “It-  _ agh, _ went very well! Our boy here ran Empress around Harksparrow Meadow in just  _ one minute and seventeen seconds!” _ Hosea’s face brightened as he looked at John, who shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his boot on the ground, ducking his head and biting his cheek to hide his grin. “Still gotta work on… actually  _ stopping, _ it seems, though. Poor John here dislocated his shoulder.”

Hosea’s bright, proud expression instantly snapped into one of quiet worry as he looked John over. “Miss Grimshaw and Bessie oughta take a look at you, John. Let me take you over to them, all right?”

“Oh, I can do that, Hosea, don’t you worry yourself,” Dutch said quickly, placing a heavy hand on the nape of John’s neck. “John and I still need our reading lesson today anyway, though I  _ might-”  _ Dutch glanced pointedly down at John where the boy was winding up his foot again “-turn it into me reading that silly storybook he likes as he rests up that shoulder. Do you think you could ride into town and get him some chocolate for his rough day, Old Girl?”

Hosea shifted his attention onto him and slowly stood up, standing nose-to-chin with him, and even though Hosea had to tilt his head up to fix him with a cool Look, Dutch still leaned back slightly. “No,” Hosea stated simply, his tone fauxly bright and friendly. “Why don’t you?”

Dutch furrowed his brow at Hosea. “There’s still a lot I gotta do with Jo-”

_ “I’m _ perfectly capable of reading a storybook aloud, am I not?”

Dutch tilted his head one way, then another, slowly raising his arms in a small shrug. “Yeah, but… y’know… that’s kinda  _ our thing… _ Ain’t that right John?” He looked down to the empty space where John was, then looked around. “John?”

Both men immediately turned their heads towards Susan and Bessie, who were greeting the boy from where he walked over, listening to him talk with rapt attention - Susan arced a judgemental eyebrow and Bessie flew her hands over her mouth, jumping up to sweep John against her side and escort him into her and Hosea’s tent while Susan pushed herself up from the laundry to go gather supplies to make a sling and numb the pain. Hosea flicked Dutch in the chest to draw his attention back. 

_ “Every _ ‘thing’ is ‘you and John’s thing,’” Hosea countered. “I feel like I don’t have any quality time with the boy.”

“Yeah you do,” Dutch huffed. “There’s writing and counting and… um…”

“Both of which you sit in on and participate in,” Hosea drawled.  _ “Dutch. _ Go into town. Sniff out a lead, rob someone, punch a bigot, take a step back for an afternoon.”

Dutch eyed Hosea for a long moment. “...If this is about John getting hurt on my watch-”

“You know me better than that,” Hosea said lowly, narrowing his eyes at him and grabbing him by the back of his collar, hurling him in the opposite direction from John. “Get some distance, Dutch, I  _ mean it.”  _

Dutch huffed and puffed at Hosea as the man walked away towards his tent with Bessie where the women were tending to the boy. After a long minute where he twitched his nose and allowed himself to be indignant, he cast his gaze around until it finally landed on Annabelle, napping on the ground under the shade of a tree, cradled between two large roots with her hands folded over her stomach and her hat pulled over her eyes, her skirts bunched up haphazardly around her knees.

“Hey, lekker ding,” Dutch drawled, tapping the toe of his boot against the bottom of Annabelle’s to wake her up. She flipped her hat up and squinted at him through her messy brown curls. “I’m going into town, and it’s boring alone. Thought I’d see if you wanted to come along.”

Annabelle continued to squint at him, then oozed back down between the tree roots, putting her hat back over her face. “I’m busy.”

Dutch snorted. “Doing what?”

“Beauty sleep. I have to stay ahead of you.”

“So you’re sayin’ you’re gonna miss out on a fun day out on the town with me ‘cause you want folk to think you’re prettier?”

“Now it’s because you’re too fucking annoying.”

Dutch huffed and held up his hands in surrender, backing off and turning around. “Sorry I asked.”

“Try not to die, micio!” Annabelle called after him. Dutch waved her off.

The only person left to check in on was Arthur.

Where even was Arthur?

A quick glance around showed him that Boadicea was nowhere to be found and that Copper was sleeping in the mouth of the boy’s tent. After a long moment, he drifted back over to Annabelle to ask her if Arthur told her where he was going, but as soon as he stepped close Annabelle whipped her hat off to jerk towards him with a clenched fist and bared teeth, so he skittered away to sidle closer to the Matthews' tent, only for Hosea to spy him and sharply snap his fingers before pointing off in the direction towards town.

He sure knew how to pick 'em.

With a beleaguered breath, Dutch almost dragged his feet towards Empress where she grazed around the tree he'd left her under, drawling a nearly-whining "Looks like it's just you and me, old friend."

Even Empress looked unimpressed.

The ride to town was absolutely droll and uneventful to his utter dismay, and as he rounded the bend into its city limits, he resolved to simply make a beeline to the store to buy chocolate for John and poke around the bookstore for a bit before sulking off to take a page out of Annabelle’s book and go nap under a tree.

All of that fell out of his head when he saw Boadicea hitched outside of the saloon.

“What the hell is that boy doin’?” he muttered, pulling Empress up to the hitch beside Arthur’s mare and barely bothering to haphazardly tie her reins to the rail before hurrying inside. He immediately spotted Arthur sitting at a corner table nursing a beer, red in the face as some waspish looking man loomed over him.

“-akes you think you can talk to a feller like that?!” the man hissed, spewing spittle all over Arthur’s hair.

“Your dumb face!” Arthur spat back.

“You’re asking for trouble!”

“I reckon I am!”

The man snatched Arthur by the collar and yanked him up out of the chair, sneering into his face “I’ll show you what we do to  _ smart-mouthed pretty boys _ around here-”

Dutch instantly moved to confront the man, only for Arthur to shatter his beer bottle over the man's head before he could get two steps in.

And then all hell broke loose.

The entire saloon let out a collective shout- and then three of the man’s buddies came running from the bar straight for Arthur where he was landing a mean right hook into waspish-fella’s jaw, making him sprawl across the ground with blood trickling down his head from the shattered glass right before the fastest of his friends launched himself into Arthur and slammed into the wall- Dutch moved his feet into a run as the piano player kept playing his jovial tune and the rest of the patrons in the bar jumped to their feet as the women ran upstairs or out the doors, and Arthur let out a bellow before ramming his elbows down on the arms pinning him to the wall to break out of the pin and uppercut the man in the jaw; the second friend fell upon Arthur in the next moment with a gut punch that knocked the air out of him and doubled him over, and the third friend moved to take advantage of the opening-

-Only for Dutch to shatter a bar chair over his back, and when the explosion of wood and sawdust subsided in the air following the collapse of the man’s body, Dutch and Arthur made eye contact the moment Arthur kneed the second friend in the face and kicked him to the floor.

_ “Hello, son!” _ Dutch bellowed over the din, a huge grin playing on his face.

Arthur blinked at him like he’d seen a ghost.  _ “Dutch?!” _

Then the first friend dived at Arthur from behind and grabbed him in a chokehold and the second friend turned towards Dutch with a vengeful snarl, launching himself towards his face. Dutch ducked the man’s fist and took a careful step back, dodged the man’s second fist, then jerked forward to slam his own punch into the man’s skull with a loud  _ crack  _ that sent him stumbling backwards, and Dutch rushed forward to connect a second time so he could bowl the man over to get to Arthur where we being ganged up on- only for another patron to get between them and yell  _ “All right, that’s enou-!” _

The well-meaning patron got knocked out by the man Dutch was fighting at the same time another patron with a walrus moustache grabbed Dutch from behind and pulled him back, but a wild glance around showed the waspish man and his first friend slamming Arthur’s head into the corner of the bar, and Dutch saw  _ red- _ he spun in the patron’s hold and slammed his elbow into the walrus-man’s temple a second before two other men from further in the bar tackled aside waspish-man’s second friend, and as walrus-man collapsed on the floor and every man realized there were no clear sides here,  _ pure, _ unadulterated anarchy broke out on the wooden floors of that small town saloon, the piano’s perky notes still warbling through the air - and Dutch stopped keeping track of any other man besides  _ Arthur  _ and  _ between me and Arthur. _

_ “Get the hell off of him!” _ Dutch bellowed, charging through every body that tried to stop or punch him with shoulder-rams or shoves, and Arthur managed to knock out one man before another grabbed him by the hair and prepared to smash his head down onto shards of broken glass on the bar- only for Dutch to tackle the man onto the ground with a heavy  _ whud, _ slamming him into the floorboards and punching him  _ once- twice- thrice _ in small sprays of blood before he stopped moving and Dutch pushed himself up to stand back-to-back with Arthur, panting for breath and raising his fists.

“You good?!” he barked to Arthur, gritting his teeth at an incoming man who broke off from the throng of yells and shrieks and punches and wrestling and thrown furniture to try and grab Dutch’s arms, and Dutch swiftly rotated them out of the man’s holds to slam them down on his forearms so he could punch him into the bar, slamming his spine on the corner, still dripping blood -  _ Arthur’s blood  _ \- onto the floor, soon covered by the man, howling like a stuck coyote.

“Yeah,” Arthur said unevenly, sidling away from Dutch to dodge a punch from one man, block the punch of another, and then land two punches of his own to the second man’s chest and nose before Dutch kicked out the first man’s ankle and punched him into the wall.

“You wanna get outta here?!” Dutch yelled again, barely missing the whistling  _ whoosh  _ of a broken bottle being stabbed in an arc by his head, shoving the man away and then stabbing him with a fork.

_ “Yeah!”  _ Arthur said, much more enthusiastically, knocking out the first man with a heavy blow to his temple before picking up a chair and throwing it with enough force to make the air whistle on the man still trying to stab Dutch with a broken bottle.

“Then c’mon!” Dutch hollered, skipping backwards and grabbing Arthur by the shoulders to jockey him into the back alcove, shielding him with his body as a bottle exploded right above their heads before shoving him out the back door, grabbing his shirt-sleeve to keep track of him and keep him close before they both ran full-tilt towards the scraggle of woods behind the town.

After seven minutes of running, when they finally came across a stream, Dutch slowed them down to a stop and panted, finally letting Arthur go and turning around to peer into the trees and look to see if they were being followed.

“Dutch… wh…” Arthur panted, heaving for breath and wobbling on his feet, “What’re you doin’ here?”

Dutch looked away from the trees to lunge forward and catch Arthur before he fell over, hushing “Easy there, Arthur, easy, easy,” easing him down to sit on the creek bank before kneeling down in front of the boy, steadying him and frowning at the blood trickling down from the painful-looking gouge sliced across the boy’s temple. “Christ.”

“Where’s John?” Arthur asked again.

Dutch was busy digging through his satchel for his small flask of whiskey and pulling out his handkerchief. “Back at camp. God, that’s a nasty gash, hold still-”

“What d’ya mean back at camp? He goes  _ everywhere  _ with y- Whoa  _ wait, _ Dutch, stop!”

Dutch paused where he’d just finished unscrewing the cap on the bottle, lifting it up to pour on his handkerchief, frozen mid-tilt. “What?”

Arthur frowned at him, his brow furrowing. “That’s your special handkerchief. You got it embroidered and everything.”

Dutch arced a brow. “So?”

Arthur squinted at him and tilted his head. “It’ll stain. You spent good money on it. And it’s yours.”

Dutch blinked at his boy, then quirked his brow with a tilt of his mouth, nodding in a  _ fair  _ gesture. He tucked his handkerchief back into his vest pocket and Arthur relaxed.

Then Dutch ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and Arthur jumped a foot in the air.

“Hold still,” Dutch scolded quietly, dousing the fabric in alcohol before finally pressing it to the dark rivulets of blood oozing out of the gash in Arthur’s head, applying enough pressure to make the boy hiss from where he’d immediately ducked his head. “What the hell were you doing in that bar? You’re supposed to be bringing  _ in  _ money, not spending it, and especially not getting yourself  _ hurt  _ or  _ worse. _ Were you callin’ folk names for no reason again?”

Arthur mumbled miserably.

“Son, I can’t make out a word you’re saying.”

Arthur clenched his jaw and screwed his face up.

Dutch slowly inhaled through his nose, then sighed, letting his frustration go with it. He washed his detached sleeve out in the creek and then set to work cleaning the blood off of Arthur’s face. “I ain’t... mad,” he said slowly, remembering how often the boy would shut down or grow distraught when he was little - god, when did he get so  _ big? _ \- if he or Hosea made the slightest aggressive move or let their voices sound even the slightest bit angry. “I just wanna know why.”

Arthur huffed a harsh breath out of his nose. “I tried to hunt… but I kept losing their trails an’ I got frustrated, so then I tried to rob this fancy mansion I came across but I got caught and shot-”

“You’re  _ shot?!” _ Dutch barked, dropping his hands from Arthur’s head to check all over his torso, finally finding a patch of blood at the boy’s hip, almost hidden by his pants. 

“It ain’t a big deal, it happened early this morning,” Arthur said with a shrug.

Dutch yanked the boy’s shirt up out of his pants and peered at the gash, hissing through his teeth. It was cleaned and dried, but painful-looking, and- how early did Arthur  _ leave? _ Had he really not noticed the boy was gone until  _ late afternoon? _

Arthur could’ve been h- He  _ was  _ hurt. Arthur could’ve been  _ killed, _ and he never would have noticed his boy was gone in the first place.

“Arthur,” Dutch said quietly, reluctantly turning his attention back to cleaning the blood off of Arthur’s head. “Why were you pickin’ a fight in that bar?”

“I’ve been in a fight in every saloon across the northern half of the state these past three months and you never had an issue with it before.”

_ I’ve never known you’d been getting into fights until now _ is what came to Dutch’s mind. Instead, he said, “Did Hosea have an issue with it?!”

“Yeah?” Arthur replied, like Dutch asked if the sky was blue. “He’s been chewing my ear off about it but I keep tellin’ him I can handle myself.”

“Sure you can,” Dutch said easily. The way the boy could soldier on through almost any pain and the way that he was knocking men’s teeth out even with blood in his eyes in that saloon said as much. “But you still ain’t answerin’ my question, Arthur.  _ Why?” _

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You should get back to John. I can get back out, bring in some money or scope out some folks to give it to by the end of the day.”

“Arthur Morgan,” Dutch said lowly, cradling Arthur’s head as he pressed the cloth to the open wound once more and held it there, eliciting another hiss. Arthur tensed up and his ears turned red.

“Ain’t got nothin’ better to do,” Arthur muttured. “Or no one to do anythin’ with.”

“There’s-!” Susan and Bessie never really left camp, and everyone would have a conniption if Bessie was anywhere within five miles of danger. Annabelle and Arthur had always treated each other with cold distance, no matter how hard Dutch tried to get the two to bond. “There’s Hosea!”

Arthur wrinkled his nose and started stripping grass out of the ground.

And then suddenly -  _ finally  _ \- it clicked.

Dutch slowly, absently washed his sleeve out in the creek and wrung it out, then doused it in alcohol again and tied it around the boy’s head, securing it with a tight double-knot to keep pressure and alcohol applied on the wound. A jaundacy halo of yellow was forming around one of Arthur’s eyes that would definitely turn into a black eye in a couple of hours. 

The next second, Dutch leaned forward and pulled Arthur into a hug.

Arthur’s breath hitched and he felt the boy -  _ his  _ boy, his  _ first boy _ \- stiffen straighter and more rigid than a board. 

“How about you and I head back to camp so Susan and Bessie can check you over, and then you and I can hang out in your tent and I get you to read some Thoreau, pick your brain a little bit?”

Arthur hesitated a moment, then slowly lifted his arms to wrap around Dutch’s back, chuckling a little. “Think my brain’s been picked by that bar pretty good already. And I’m seeing double of everything.”

Dutch tightened his hold. “...How about I just read you Twain’s new book? The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?”

Arthur slowly unwound in his arms and hugged him tighter. “Sure.”

Dutch gave Arthur an extra squeeze, then pushed himself up with a grunt, pulling Arthur up along with him and supporting him against his side. The two gave each other small smiles, Dutch gently ruffled Arthur’s hair, then started off to retrieve their horses.


	5. (John&Hosea&Arthur&Dutch) Snuggling for Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is by and for Felix Kite [@CrimsonFandom](https://twitter.com/crimsonfandom), who requested "Could you please write something with John, Arthur, Dutch and Hosea all huddling together for warmth during a snow storm?" This prompt... immediately struck me as very Special, so I wanted to make this particular prompt fill... a bit of a cathartic piece and love letter to the fandom at large. This year has been... very, very brutal, and so, so hard on all of us. But... if there is any blessing the year 2020 has given me... it's finding this game, these characters, and this wonderful community. Merry Christmas, from me to you all ♥
> 
> I'm taking prompt requests on my Twitter, so please see [this thread](https://twitter.com/platonicharmon1/status/1334599384378519553) to request a prompt! I will be closing it soon!
> 
> Lastly... I was listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fjoPjQOlWJY) on repeat as I wrote this.

_ “E-Everyone! Check in!”  _

Arthur shivered miserably in his saddle and tucked his head further into the fur collar of his coat, blinking against the thick sheets of snow billowing into his eyes from the freezing, howling wind. “Here!” he called out to Dutch’s voice, emanating from a faint shadow up ahead.

_ “H-Here!” _ cried John’s voice off to his right.

There was silence.

_ “HOSEA?” _ they all yelled at once, pulling their horses to a stop.

The sound of hooves churning in the snow was upon them shortly as Silver Dollar forged his way through the snowdrifts into the middle of their triangle, and they could finally hear Hosea’s strained breathing as he weakly yelled “I  _ s-said  _ here-” he gasped for breath for too many seconds, then managed “-dammit! Keep thes-se horses mov-v-ving!”

They all wordlessly complied with taps of their spurs, though Dutch turned around in his saddle to holler “Why don’t you t-t-take p-point and I’ll bring up the b-back, Old G-Girl?”

Hosea stayed silent for another long stretch, then clicked his tongue and kicked Silver Dollar up to the front of their group as Dutch fell to the back.

“Why did we r-ride out-t today in the first-t-t place?!” John barked. “We shoulda n-never left town!”

“It’s Miss Tilly’s f-first Christmas with us-s!” Arthur yelled back. “W-We have to at least  _ t-try!” _

“We d-don’t even have any p-p-presents!”

_ “Because-” _ Dutch bellowed, his voice cracking “-that s-stagecoach gave us all the m-money we need to get each-ch other proper gifts, b-but everywhere was closed on C-Christmas Eve, and I w- I w-want this Christmas to be speci-” his voice died out, though Arthur doubted it was stolen by the wind, judging by how Dutch’s dark-clad figure hunched in on itself atop The Count.

A glance forward showed Hosea’s spine sinking under an invisible weight.

John grew quiet and somber at his side, ducking his head as if he’d been scolded.

It was their first Christmas with young Tilly, their second without Bessie, and their first without Annabelle.

Arthur wet his chapped lips and swallowed, looking around at the blinding white landscape, completely consumed by the blizzard they were riding in and only getting more buried by the minute. His visibility stretched only as far as Hosea, riding about ten feet in front of him.

“John’s right,” Arthur called out to the group, making John shyly raise his face out of the confines of his coat. “We’d r-ruin the g-girl’s Christmas f-for good if we all turn up d-dead. We gave it a g-g-go, but we  _ gotta  _ get out of this. M-Miss Grimshaw and Uncle’s with her - she ain’t al-lone.”

They pushed their horses on in silence for a minute. Then, Hosea called, “First safe place I see… we’re s-stopping. I promise.”

“Thank you, S-‘Sea!” Arthur called to him.

“T-Thanks Hosea!” John yelled.

“Are you boys c-cold?” Dutch yelled. “You can ride with us if y-you’re cold!”

Arthur and John looked at each other where they rode on Boadicea and Old Boy in the middle of their small, fragile flock. 

Of course they were cold. They’d been cold for hours. But they also knew how rough this loss was on their father figures.

How rough the last two  _ years  _ had been on them. 

On them all.

“Sure,” Arthur replied over the wind, spurring Boadicea to canter up next to Silver Dollar so he could leap out of the saddle onto the rump of the Turkoman, John pulling Old Boy back next to The Count so he could jump behind Dutch. Both young men clambered themselves around to sit properly behind the saddles and cinch their arms around Hosea and Dutch’s middles, huddling into their backs - Hosea leaned his back against Arthur’s chest in return and freed a hand from the reins to squeeze one of Arthur’s with a thankful caress of his thumb, and John shoved his hands into Dutch’s coat and buried his face in the fur, allowing Arthur to hear a faint, deep chuckle over the wind as Dutch spurred The Count up to ride close to Silver Dollar’s side. Arthur and John whistled for Boadicea and Old Boy to follow, and then their small family continued to forge their way through the snow.

After a long while, Hosea spied something in the landscape that made him perk up and spur Silver Dollar to veer off to the right, The Count following close behind with the other horses. In a few seconds, they all saw it - the faint, warm, golden glow of a house’s lights through the haze of the blizzard, like the beacon of a lighthouse through a foggy night.

“Oh th-thank God,” Dutch sighed as they pulled their horses up front. “Everyone… d-dismount, and k-keep your guns holstered, but r-ready. I’m sure these are perfectly k-kind folk, but if they ain’t... “ He swallowed. “We ain’t l-l-losin’ anyone. We’re just being careful. A-All right?”

The three of them nodded and slid off of their horses into the snow in front of the humble farm house. Dutch stepped up to the front door and Arthur and John stepped up to Hosea’s sides, pressing their shoulders against his. Hosea lifted his hands to rub a single, soothing circle into their shoulders before Dutch lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

After a few short seconds, the door opened to bathe them all in golden light and a shotgun barrel immediately aimed at Dutch’s chest. Arthur’s and John’s hands flexed while Hosea rested his hand inconspicuously on the handle of his cattleman where it stuck out of its inverted holster.

A muscular white man with red hair and a weather-worn face stared Dutch down and glanced behind him at the line the three of them formed behind Dutch before meeting Dutch’s eyes again. Arthur peered behind the man to spy a black woman eyeing them suspiciously with two young children tucked against her skirts, their skin the color of Isaac’s, staring at them with wide, curious eyes.

The red-haired man swallowed. “What do you want?”

“Howdy, M-Mister,” Dutch greeted warmly, smiling softly and slowly reaching up to take off his hat, hunching himself down to make his absurdly towering frame appear smaller. “My… M-My uh…” He glanced at the man’s family before glancing back at his own. He took a deep breath and worried his hat in front of his stomach. “My partner and I, and our k-kids here, we’re caught out in this b-blizzard trying to get home, but we can’t m-make it much longer. I don’t want to int-trude on your beautiful family on this b-blessed holiday, but… is there any way you could give us sh-shelter?”

The man’s face slowly softened the more and more Dutch spoke, and after a long few seconds of silence when Dutch finished, the man relaxed and lowered his gun - and Hosea took his hand off of his. “Sure, friend,” the man said. “You and yours and your horses can stay in the barn. It’s out back, and airtight - I built it myself. You should be warm enough in there. Do you need food?”

Dutch heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back slightly. “I couldn’t p-possibly-”

“We got too much food,” the man’s wife said kindly, caressing her children’s heads before moving to fill four tins with turkey and steamed vegetables. “And it’s Christmas. Who would we be if we don’t shelter and feed desperate travelers in our stable?”

“Thank you,” Dutch said breathlessly, as Hosea stepped up to his side and clasped his shoulder.  _ “Thank you.” _

Arthur and John shared a soft smile, then moved to grab each of the horses’ reins.

An hour later, with their bellies full of warm food and the horses all untacked and brushed down and put away next to the family’s steed, they each grabbed their bed rolls and blankets before Hosea started moving around bales of hay and kicking around straw to form an insulated nest. It was still so cold in the barn that Arthur and John’s teeth were chattering, so both of them eagerly threw their bed rolls down as soon as Hosea seemed satisfied, diving into the warm wool and covering themselves with the blankets as Dutch and Hosea shared a twinkly-eyed smile above them and moved to unfurl their own rolls.

“I’m s-sorry we ruined you boys’ Christmas this year,” Hosea said softly, laying his bed roll out near John and stiffly settling into it with a few painful-sounding  _ cracks. _ The two years of grief and stress burned gray streaks into his temples and gouged stress-lines into his face, but the dark bags under his eyes were a little lighter than this time last year.

“This is still b-better than any Christmas I had with m-my Pa,” Arthur said easily, folding his arms behind his head. He glanced between Hosea and Dutch and smiled. “Runnin’ with you two is all I need.”

Dutch cuffed him on the head and slumped down into his bed roll at Arthur’s side, smiling sadly down at his boots. The bags under his eyes were as dark as Hosea’s were last year, and the crow’s feet growing in the corners of his eyes were visible even in the dim orange lantern light.

“What about me?” John snarked, poking his head out of the blankets, his hair officially a tangled, ratty mess.

Arthur snorted. “You’re my family now too, you moron,” he drawled, rolling onto his side to pull John into a hug and furiously noogie his head, making the eighteen-year-old growl and slap at his ribs before wiggling his fingers in Arthur’s armpits, and Arthur yelped before using his bulk to flatten John into the ground, the both of them snickering and kicking at each other.

Arthur doubted even he would have made it through those dark years without John at his side. Their shared grief and apocalyptic anxiety over Hosea and Dutch spiraling apart made them each other’s life preservers in that too-long storm that rocked their family and almost tore it apart, and they gave each other enough strength to support the men who, up till then, had always supported  _ them. _

Hosea shoved at Arthur to push him off of John with a bittersweet smile and a quip of “Behave. You’re not children anymore.”

Dutch crossed his ankles and folded his hands onto his stomach. “You should both c-consider undoing that, by the way. Growing up.”

“Sure,” John drawled, “let me get right on that and forget how to read and how to shoot.”

“Oh Lord.”

The four of them chuckled where they lay, staring up at the rafters as the wind howled and whistled against the boards of the barn. 

“I’m cold,” John declared.

Arthur grunted. “Me too.”

Hosea side-eyed them both. “What do you want  _ us  _ to do about it? Set the barn on fire?”

“No, seriously, I’m… really cold,” John repeated, all the mirth gone from his voice. “I can’t feel my feet and my hands hurt like a bitch.”

“Here,” Hosea said immediately, shoving his bed roll up against John’s and draping both himself and his blankets half on top of him. John hissed a sigh of relief through his faintly chattering teeth.

“You’re too scrawny,” Arthur complained, pushing himself closer to press up against John’s side, pulling his own blankets over the three of them and worming his arm under them and around Hosea. “You wouldn’t be so cold if you ate more. The both of ya.”

John and Hosea huffed at the same time.

The three of them laid there for a long minute. Dutch remained where he was, staring blankly at the rafters, the light reflecting more than usual off of his eyes as he kneaded at one of his forearms.

“Dutch?” Arthur prompted, quietly. “...I’m still cold, too.”

Dutch looked over at him and sniffed. He swallowed and nodded, then moved closer to press himself up against Arthur’s back, tossing his blankets over himself, Arthur, and John. Arthur hummed in contentment, John’s eyelids started drooping, and Hosea reached across them both to fish for Dutch’s hand, finally clasping it and giving it a squeeze.

After another long moment, as peace finally began to settle over them all, Hosea mused, “You know… I bet we’d be even warmer if we took our coats off and added them to the blankets instead. Then we could properly share our body heat.”

All of them scrambled to do so the very next second.

In no time at all, the four of them slumped back down onto their bed rolls and redoubled their snuggling for warmth, Dutch a blazingly warm line of heat at Arthur’s back as warmth radiated out from John and Hosea wherever their skin touched through the fabric of their shirts or pants, their legs all tangled together in a jumbled mess of knees and ankles as all of their arms reached out one direction or another to pull themselves closer into the softness of the men at their sides.

Arthur remembered a Christmas wish he’d made one year, curled up on the floor in his threadbare coat as his father slept between him and the fire. He’d only dared to crawl close to curl into him once before he got shoved across the wooden boards, back out into the dark and the drafts.

He wished for a dad who loved him.

And somehow, someway… he got two of them. And a little brother, and… maybe even a little sister, to boot.

Arthur sniffled. Everyone graciously ignored it in favor of closing their eyes.

Several minutes passed as they all slowly unwound in each other’s hold, their shivering fading away in exchange for boneless comfort. Several yawns were exchanged, and then John started snoring. Arthur nestled his face into a mixture of wool, hay, and John’s hair and let himself drift to the edge of sleep.

“Next year will be kinder.”

Arthur focused on Hosea’s whisper and keyed back into his surroundings from the brink of dreams. He could feel Hosea and Dutch holding each other’s elbows on top of his and John’s sides, and knew without looking that they were gazing at each other over his and John’s heads.

“Because we’re going to  _ make  _ it kinder,” Hosea added, his voice as soft and warm as his embrace.

And maybe it was a fool’s hope, but… Arthur believed him.

All four of them fell asleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, and you made it through this year... know that I'm proud of you. And that I love you. Thank you for reading, and thank you for making it ♥
> 
> Happy Holidays 🎄🕎✨☸️🤠


	6. (Dutch/f!Reader) Advanced Cuddling 🔞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is by and for [@roamingoutlaws](https://twitter.com/roamingoutlaws), who requested "could I perhaps request a Dutch x Female reader? 🥺 Maybe just super fluffy smut? I yearn" I ended up... having a lot of trouble with it, and I don't think I'm comfy with writing anything f!Reader anymore, but that just means you get a one-of-the-kind ficlet from me 😅 I still did my best to make it nice with a lil bow on it, and I hope this satisfies the yearning/makes you smile!!!!!!
> 
> I'm closing prompts tomorrow before wrapping up the last requests and returning to private work, so here's [the last call](https://twitter.com/platonicharmon1/status/1334599384378519553) for prompt requests!

Dutch’s low, rumbling growl and squeak from his stretching woke you up in the early morning light filtering through the canvas of his tent, feeling his muscles vibrate and shudder at your side before he settled again with a heavy breath and a low noise that was almost like a purr. You snorted.

“Mmwhat?” Dutch murmured, draping an arm around your middle again. 

“Your noises,” you muttered. “I love ‘em.”

Dutch snorted, softly. “Well ain’t that sweet.”

“True. They  _ are  _ sweet.”

“I reckon you’re the only one who thinks any part of me is sweet no more.”

You turned over at that, laying nose-to-nose with him on the pillow of his cot. “Did you ask ‘em?” you asked tiredly, rubbing at your eyes.

“Don’t need to.”

“Yeah you do.”

Dutch looked at you for a long moment, then huffed a laugh. “Maybe you’re right. But I won’t.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be sweet to ‘em then,” you drawled, tilting your head up to capture his lips in yours, kissing him long and slow and sweet. The heady warmth and weight of him against your side, the smell of him that swaddled your senses in the scents of sweet tobacco and rosin and lemon, along with the salty-spring smell of soap, and the feeling of his chest rising and falling against yours must have ignited a slow-burning flame in you in your sleep, because you found yourself already aching and faintly wet. You pushed yourself further against him, grinding your clit against his thigh through the fabric of his union suit and your nightgown, curling your fingers into the fabric over his sides before deepening the kiss.

Dutch grunted and tapped your hip, and you stopped, searching his eyes for any sign he wanted you to stop. He smiled apologetically and rumbled, “Slow down there, cowgirl.”

You reached up with a wan smile and caressed his jaw. “That’s all right. We don’t have to.”

“Oh, I want to,” Dutch slurred, still a little sleepy as he tightened his hold on you and ground his morning wood against the alert nerves of your center, “I just want you to know I…” he yawned “...might not be able to do anything fancy or have the best endurance right now. That okay?”

You quirked your eyebrow at him and continued to caress his jaw, sweeping your hand up to rub the shell of his ear between your knuckles, making his eyes flutter. “Why are you treating this like work or that you have a performance quota?” you asked quietly. “This and that sweetness comment earlier. What’s that about?”

You snuggled closer to him, and focusing, you could feel the faint line of tension that settled in all of his muscles.

Dutch sighed, the shadows making the stress-lines in his face look deeper than his laugh-lines. “Just been… thinkin’,” he muttered, yawning again. “Head’s been real loud lately.”

You stretched up to kiss his forehead. “Well, tell it to shut up.”

A wheezed laugh shook out of Dutch’s chest, and he kissed the corner of your eye. “I’ll get right on that,” he said, his voice a little louder and carrying a note of orneriness that lifted it up out of its melancholy.

You smiled at the sound. “Let’s just have fun, yeah?” you whispered. “Relax.”

Dutch pecked you on the lips and whispered, “You take such good care of me. How about I take care of you?”

You smiled wider. “What did I  _ just  _ say?” you started, but Dutch was already pressing his hand into your your sternum, gliding his hand down from between your breasts, over your stomach to splay his fingers over your abdomen, then further down to cup your pussy, bringing his fingers together again to softly caress it with gentle pressure through your nightgown, making you gasp and arch your spine as he nuzzled his head down into the crook of your neck.

In retaliation, you stretched your hand out to cup his hard cock through the fabric of his union suit, kneading it gently and eliciting a small, pleased grunt from his throat.

He responded by pulling your nightgown up above your hips and reaching down to pull the blankets firmly over you both, shielding you from any eyes that may barge their way into the tent before reaching his fingers down to dip through your slick and start rubbing circles around your clit. You let out a grunt and bucked your hips up into his hand, slipping your own hand into the flap of his union suit to grasp his cock, stroking it gently with lazy caresses of your thumb as the both of you burrowed closer into each other’s warmth.

After a long while of working at each other with gentle, lazy movements and hitched breaths and long kisses and no lack of grinding, he sailed over the edge and came in your hand, and the sensation of it mixed with his hand sweeping along your center sent you following after him.

After a minute of panting, you managed, “There. See? Relaxed. Fun!”

“Fu-...” Dutch murmured, yawning again before going completely boneless, pulling you into his chest before his breath deepened. “Uh-hunh…”

You grinned. “Are you falling asleep on me?”

A snore was your only answer.


	7. (Dutch/Hosea) Pushing Daisies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is by and for Julian [@spaceghcst](https://twitter.com/spaceghcst), who requested a vandermatthews Pushing Daisies AU, and so!! I!!!!! Splashed around in my lil sandbox!!!!!!!! I hope y'all enjoy this ♥
> 
>  **Content Warning** for **extreme harm to animals/animal cruelty.**
> 
> Prompts are now CLOSED, and I'm so glad that I could do this little experiment to try and make folk smile!
> 
> P.S. For a slow-dancing song, I can't recommend [The Wayward Wind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMT2rNeau2o) by Eddy Arnold enough.

Dutch van der Linde was no stranger to yearning.

He yearned for things as soon as he developed the ability to  _ want. _ He yearned for his daddy to come home. He yearned to escape the suffocating air of his mother’s shadow. He yearned to end war, end hunger, end prejudice and injustice, and end the machines that left good folk hanging from trees. He yearned for men, to touch their hard muscles or soft middles, to feel the slide of stubble down his neck or between his thighs.

For the longest time, he yearned for platinum blonde hair and sharp hazel eyes. He yearned for a grizzled tenor drawl and lithe, slim, calloused hands. He yearned for deceptively strong arms around him, for thin chapped lips at his throat, for a silver tongue to teach him the wonders of wordsmithing directly. He yearned for bony hips in the cradles of his palms, yearned for lithe legs wrapped around the small of his back, yearned to be taken apart by the precise attentions of a master pickpocket and have his mind unwound by endless streams of praise, of worship, murmured into his ear.

Every touch by that impossible dream of a man was a blessing, a gift. For over two decades, he shuddered at the feeling of those hands soothing his shoulders or his back or tickling his sides. His heart stuttered each time those lips chastely pressed a kiss to his cheek. Those legs wrapped around his back, but in piggy-back rides full of belly laughter, and the only times they became fully encased in the other was in full-body embraces to shield each other from the cold.

His yearning was fulfilled the night before their heist of the Lemoyne National Bank, when he invited his life-partner to his room, knelt down at his feet, splayed his hands over his knees, and gazed up at his guiding star to confess that he loved him - that he was  _ in love _ with him. He spoke of silly, romantic, dreamlike things that he  _ yearned  _ for, things like building a house together or being able to wake up together each morning or hold their grandbabies or even, perhaps, slipping a ring onto the man’s finger when they finally reach retirement after this last, final score. Glittering tears slid down  _ Hosea’s _ blank, stonelike face in the moonlight, and Dutch stared up at him in breathless terror, only for Hosea to guide him onto the bed and stand before him, slowly removing each layer of himself, his weapons, his clothes, and his weathered, aching outer shell that he used to guard his heart, neatly folding them at Dutch’s feet before cupping his face in his hands and forming a new covenant in the meeting of their lips, of skin-against-skin, stitching their souls together to the hymn of sighs and gasps and laughter.

It was a covenant broken the very next day by a bullet tearing through the man’s chest in violent scarlet rain.

Dutch became aware of his power when he was six years old.

The barn cat had a litter of kittens that his mother drowned. He remembered kneeling afterwards by the bucket, sobbing and cradling their tiny bodies in his hands, only for them to shudder back to life and start mewling up at his wide-eyed, shocked face. He quickly gave them back to their mother who instantly squirreled them away, and he never saw the kittens - or the mother - again.

After that, he learned through trial and error and far too much hardship the limits of his power. If he touched whatever or  _ whoever  _ he brought back to life a second time, they were dead for good, no matter how much he touched them. If he brought back any life for longer than a minute, the world took another similar life at random as its price.

Dutch didn’t think when he screamed at his gang to cover him as he ran outside and nearly slapped his love in the face in his haste to cup his jaw.

It was the last touch they could ever share.

Dutch thought he knew the meaning of yearning before.

Nothing could ever compare to being robbed of the ability to touch his husband ever again, with him alive and breathing right at his side.

“Dutch?”

Dutch blinked out of his reverie where he sat in his rocking chair on their porch, turning his head to look up at his partner, smiling down at him with twinkling eyes and a soft smile with his hands clasped behind his back. Dutch gave him a sad smile in return and obligingly sat perfectly still so Hosea could lift a hand to squeeze his bicep through his shirt - a simple gesture of comfort turned as dangerous as disarming a landmine.

“Hey, Old Girl,” Dutch murmured, slowly wringing his hands in his lap and turning his gaze back out to where the morning sun shined on their rolling pasture, the cattle grazing peacefully in the distance.

“I was hoping you might… join me in the gazebo?” Hosea prompted, hesitantly.

Dutch blinked and gently huffed. “Sure.”

With a gesture of his head, Hosea lead the way around the side of the house, and Dutch followed behind him at a respectable distance of about six feet before they both finally stepped up the old shoddily-built steps onto the wooden floor. Dutch stopped in the shade and watched idly as Hosea stepped away to grab a wrapped gift from the rail and carry it back, stopping a solid distance away from Dutch and holding it out at arm’s length.

Dutch eyed the gift for a long second before carefully grabbing it from the furthest edge from Hosea’s hand, carefully tearing off the paper wrap and opening the box to find…

...a fine pair of suede leather riding gloves.

“What…” Dutch started, only to look up in awe as Hosea pulled a pair of his own out of his pocket and slid them onto his hands, tucking his shirt sleeves into them before pulling out a headscarf and securely wrapping his head and neck in the shroud. Dutch continued to watch in dumbstruck silence as Hosea meandered to his phonograph, placed on the table, and set a record to playing - a slow, gentle prairie ballad. 

“Mister Matthews…” Hosea drawled slowly, holding out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

A slow smile twitched onto Dutch’s face before he quirked his brow up and ducked his head, laughing as he slid the gloves on - they were thin and so very soft, feeling like they enhanced his sense of touch instead of dampening it - and tucked in his sleeves, delicately reaching out to twine his fingers with Hosea’s and step close. “You may, Mister van der Linde,” he rumbled in return, aching to kiss or even press his nose against the other man’s, but instead he settled for taking his hip as his husband dragged his hand up his back and pulled Dutch closer, tucking himself down against the outskirts of his shoulder. Dutch buried his face into the top of Hosea’s headscarf and closed his eyes, slowly taking a deep breath, and shivering at the sensation of Hosea’s  _ warmth  _ and  _ weight  _ finally in his arms, at being able to be enveloped by the man’s scent, rather than just begging for the shirt he wore that day to sleep with before they turned in to their separate beds.

His despair was interrupted when Hosea started swaying, rocking him gently back into the moment, able to fully touch his husband, to be close to him, and Dutch shuddered before pressing a kiss to the top of Hosea’s head as they swayed, then his ear, then his neck, then his shoulder, before Hosea stepped back just enough to tug his silk scarf up to cover his mouth and nose, tilting his head in invitation. Dutch let out another breathless laugh before he slowly leaned his head down to kiss his husband on the lips through the shroud.

They went back to slow-dancing afterwards as the sun continued to rise, expanding its golden light into ever-brighter hues, diversifying the world in vast palettes of color as leaves and petals swirled in the wind as slowly and lazily as they swayed together, their hearts beating against each other’s chests, swaddled in each other’s warmth - and the intimacy of their dance was the closest thing to making love they could possibly hope for. Dutch wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t.

They cheated death in order to get their happy ending. And cheating death came with a price. Dutch couldn’t touch either of his sons, now, either, but he could live with the knowledge that they were living in peace with their partners nearby, and that he got to see them every day.

And when it came to Hosea… his  _ husband… _ well.

There were greater prices to pay.


	8. (Hosea&Arthur&Dutch) You Deserve Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final ficlet is for [@arthrenthusiast](https://twitter.com/arthrenthusiast/), who prodded me into writing a ficlet based off of a thought I had about Young Arthur casually rattling off all his traumas to his new dads and getting confused when they react with horror. Consequently, _this is a very heavy ficlet._ Please proceed with caution (and perhaps it's fitting that my final ficlet is very on-brand Heavy Angst skjfhkjshefs)
> 
>  **Content Warning** for extreme, graphic descriptions of **physical, emotional, and psychological child abuse** that involves **restriction of food,** as well as descriptions of **gore.**

“You see that shack?” Dutch mused as the three of them rode down the trail. Arthur followed his gaze to look at the building down the slope a ways in the woods, standing dark with its door ajar. Dutch’s youthful clean-shaven face was practically glowing with curiosity. “I wonder what’s in it?”

Hosea squinted up at Dutch where he was riding beside Arthur and furrowed his brow, his sharp, smooth features falling into an even deeper frown than he normally wore. “Not a worthwhile mark, that’s what it is, especially if we want to find a new place to camp by sundo-  _ And  _ he’s not listening to me,” he sighed as Dutch turned his horse and spurred her to canter down the slope towards the building, and Arthur only spared Hosea a glance before perking up and turning his horse after him, clicking at his gelding to amble after his mentor.

“Whoa!” Arthur chirped at his horse, sitting back in the saddle once he got close to where Dutch was dismounting and peering at the small wooden building. Ivy was crawling up the worn and weathered slats and moss dangled down from the shingles above the dark, dusty windows. The door, hanging ajar on only one hinge, had a word and some numbers on it, and Arthur could tell the numbers were 6:34, but he had no idea how to read the word. He looked down at the ground - he hoped he’d get used to how far down it seemed one day - and purposefully looked back up before sliding his leg over the saddle and his foot out of the stirrup before dropping down on bended knees.

“Proverbs 6:34,” Dutch read out loud, something Arthur felt very grateful for as he stepped up to the man’s side at the same time Hosea harshly pulled up beside them, looking like he had a bee in his bonnet. Dutch casually reached out to knead Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur vibrated a little, a smile threatening to twitch onto his face. “Hey, Old Girl, you know what that i-?”

“Do I look like a Bible repository?” Hosea snapped, dismounting his horse and immediately unholstering his gun. “Let’s satisfy your curiosity, then. C’mon.”

“What do you think we’re going to find in some old building besides old treasures and stories?” Dutch asked with a snort as he followed Hosea towards the door. Arthur unholstered his own gun and followed after him with a small skip in his step, only for Hosea to pause, look at Dutch, and flick his gaze towards Arthur. Dutch froze in his tracks so abruptly that Arthur bounced off his back, and the next thing he knew, Dutch was turning around and gesturing at him and saying, “You wait here, Arthur. We need someone on watch.”

“But I wanna see what’s in there!” he said in a voice that was most certainly  _ not  _ a whine. Hosea’s frown sunk further down and a wave of ice washed through Arthur’s veins, making him click his mouth shut and clam up.

Maybe it  _ was  _ a whine.

“-ou on watch,” Dutch was saying, and  _ oh no he wasn’t listening. _ “We’ll only be five minutes.”

“Yes Sir,” Arthur said immediately, holding his gun in both hands and turning towards the direction of the road, scowling in his best approximation of Hosea.

“Don’t call me ‘Sir,’ kiddo!” Dutch chirped, but he was already hurrying into the shack, and Hosea heaved a sigh before following behind him.

Arthur listened to the two men poke around inside as he studiously squinted the stinging wetness out of his eyes, red in the face.

“Christ alive, it smells in here,” Dutch huffed, stepping heavily around.

“Does it? I didn’t notice.”

“Ever the comedian.”

“They called me ‘Chuckles’ back East.”

“More like Chuckles the Clown.”

“That just makes me sound disturbing.”

“Are you saying you’re not disturbing?”

“There’s nothing here but old tin cutlery and a hearth full of birds’ nests. Can we leave now?”

“There’s also a cellar door over here! And-  _ augh- _ seems like that smell is coming from it.”

“That smell is  _ rot, _ Dutch. It’s probably not something you wanna poke around in.”

“I already opened the door.”

“Of course you did.  _ Stop _ \- let me go first.”

“Ever the gentleman.”

“Thought I was disturbing.”

“To everyone else but me.”

“I’m going to stop talking because I can taste whatever the hell is decomposing down there every time I open my mouth.”

“I… Fair. Though I was kind of hoping for a little sweet remar-”

And after that, their voices - or at least Dutch’s - became too muffled for Arthur to follow.

He only had to stand in silence for thirty seconds before there was an almighty clammer from inside, a cacophony of scrambling and stomping boots and things knocked over before Dutch came stumbling out the front door, slamming onto his knees in the grass to throw up. Arthur blinked owlishly at him before turning and running inside to go see what got such a strong reaction from him - he only got so far as to navigate to the open cellar door in the dim, drab light of the living space inside before Hosea loomed out of nowhere and caught him around his middle, hauling him away from the door before steering him back outside by the shoulders with a gentle, quiet, “No.”

Back outside in the sunlight, Hosea firmly caressed Arthur’s back before stepping away and lifting the door up to slam it shut. Dutch finished spitting out the last of his bile and fell back on his ass, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve and groaning.

“What? What was it?!” Arthur yelled, standing on tip-toe and puffing himself up and clenching his fists.

Hosea looked at him and then leaned back against the door, pulling his bandana up to cough into it for a long few seconds before softening his expression to say “You don’t need to know.”

Arthur scoffed and flitted to Dutch, shoving at his shoulder and pulling at his sleeve, asking “What was in there? Dutch, what was it?!”

Dutch grimaced and looked up at him, shaking his head and heaving a deep breath. “You’re… you’re too young, Arthur.”

“What?! The Hell I am!” Arthur barked. “I can take it! Come on!”

“Arthur,” Hosea gently chided, “listen to Dutch.”

“I ain’t a kid!” Arthur growled, and Dutch weakly chuckled as Hosea rubbed at his eyes. “I  _ ain’t!” _

“Son,” Dutch sighed, pushing himself up to his feet and reaching out to ruffle Arthur’s hair only for Arthur to flinch away, prompting a brief flash of hurt in the man’s eyes, “there’s some things in this world that boys shouldn’t have to… to see until they’re ready. All right? C’mon. We’re leaving.”

“I  _ am  _ ready!” Arthur insisted, holding up his revolver. “You gave me this, didn’t you? What you expect me to do with this? Ask folk nicely to stop? You said you needed another man to run in your gang, and-”

“That gun is for  _ emergencies, _ Arthur,” Hosea said sternly from the door, slowly walking forward, and Arthur found himself tensing up again, scanning Hosea for any sign of anger, but the man’s eyes were still soft despite his stern frown and pinched brow. “And we hope to God you’ll never have to use it. And if I had my way, we’d find you a home where you’d never need to carry and where you’d be guaranteed food every day and not have to worry about being  _ shot at-” _ Dutch tensed up at Arthur’s side and drifted closer to him, holding up a defusing hand at Hosea that the man ignored “-because  _ you deserve better _ than running with us, kid!”

_ “Hosea-” _ Dutch started, his voice deep and wounded.

Arthur holstered his gun and then stomped his foot before drawling “I saw my Pa kill a man!” He wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms, jutting his chin up. “Shot him dead. There was blood pouring out of his throat and mouth and everything. And Pa made me take the body out into the woods and bury him. And one time one of Pa’s friends got funny at me so I stuck a broken bottle into his gut. And then another time we found the remains of a working lady turned into paste by a railroad track with some rope. And that ain’t even counting the stuff Pa did to me! If I annoyed him he’d punish me by not letting me eat for three days and make a point out of eating in front of me. And if I did something wrong he’d beat the shit out of me, with his fists or his belt and one time he hit me with a chair and broke my arm, and then made me work off the doctor’s fee by selling newspapers. When I lied to him he made me wash my mouth out with lye soap and it  _ burned  _ and when he got drunk he’d put his cigarettes out on me, I still got the scars, look!” And at that he yanked aside his collar and showed them the nape of his neck, which sent Dutch skittering back away from him. Arthur casually turned around and finished “And I also watched him swing and saw the life leave out of his eyes and stood there watching him long enough for the crows to start picking at him, and then I got ran off people’s properties by brooms and rakes and shotguns for the years it took me to meet you two, and y’all are the first ones to ever give me the time of day, and you should stop treating me like a goddamn baby because I’m not a  _ stupid kid!  _ I’m a man!”

He finally allowed himself to focus on their faces.

Hosea and Dutch stood, side by side, staring at him pale and wall-eyed, looking near tears.

Arthur furrowed his brow at them both and shifted his weight. “...I’m a man.”

Hosea and Dutch looked at each other and met each other’s eyes before turning back to him. Dutch wet his lips, swallowed, then slowly said, “No, son… you’re not.”

Arthur let out a growl and puffed up. “You’re not  _ listening!” _

“We listened just fine,” Hosea said quietly. “And none of it changes the fact that you’re just a boy, Arthur. A  _ child. _ The fact that you were robbed of a childhood doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have one now.”

“I wasn’t robbed of nothin’,” Arthur spat. “It made me tough!”

Hosea and Dutch shared another look, before Dutch stepped closer and gestured Arthur away from the shack and started walking. Arthur fell into step beside him and Hosea carefully crossed to walk at Arthur’s other side. “Son,” Dutch sighed, “my mother did the lye thing with me whenever I blasphemed and threatened to burn my books if I didn’t do what she wanted. That didn’t make me any more of a man. It was bad, and wrong, and that’s no way to treat a kid. And your father…?” Dutch took another deep breath, flexing and unflexing his hands as they picked their way through the woods. “You didn’t deserve none of that. None. And there ain’t no value to any of that shit. You understand?”

“And we’d never do anything like that to you,” Hosea added, looking down at him with the first warmth towards him Arthur ever saw on the man’s face.

“But…” Arthur tried, his anger and indignancy floundering a bit. “But… But you don’t gotta shield me!”

“Maybe not,” Hosea mused, “maybe you’ve already seen most things. Doesn’t mean that me and Dutch want to expose you to any  _ more.” _

“You deserve to not have to be  _ tough, _ Arthur,” Dutch hedged, finally coming to a stop in a meadow. Arthur and Hosea came to a stop soon after. “At least not when it’s just us. I knew your grit as soon as I first saw you, kiddo. You ain’t gotta prove anything to me.” At that, Dutch pointedly looked at Hosea, and Arthur followed his gaze.

Hosea cancelled the motion of crossing his arms in front of his chest to instead fix his shirt cuffs. When he looked up at Arthur, the soft warmth seemed even warmer. After a long moment of silence, Hosea said, “I still think you deserve better than anything we can give you… but we’re gonna do everything we can for you anyway, kid. As long as you choose to keep our company…” He took a deep breath. “We’ll be glad to have you as one of our own. And do what your diseased rat of a father never could do for you. The both of us. And you ain’t got nothing to prove to me, either.”

Arthur blinked.

Then blinked again.

A tear slipped down his cheek and he furiously wiped it away. His heart thundered as both Dutch and Hosea looked at him, expectantly.

“Okay,” he said, for lack of anything to say.

He’d be processing this for days.

Or maybe the rest of his life.

He vibrated again when both men’s hands reached out to rub his shoulders, and at first they both hesitated, only for Arthur to nod slightly and lift his arms. A beaming smile lit up Dutch’s face as Hosea stepped close and hugged Arthur’s head to his chest before Dutch did the same with his chest, and after a pair of pats and rubs to Arthur’s back as he hugged them both, they both stepped away and called for the horses.

All three of them were smiling as they rode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a peaceful, happy, safe, healthy New Year everyone, and thank you so much for making this year bearable for me ♥


End file.
